Four Scenes from a Night spent 169 Kilometers outside of Budapest
Muttered Hungarian, slow pálinka-thick tones. The light lumbering toward sleep as the village hills close down for the night. The spirit deep night of haze and fevered dream. Dusk given the last dance gives way to the billowing void of smudged black and star dappled ancient evening.
Inside the old country, we are living in mythic caves. Our fingers trace the horned paintings and red horses of some forgotten kingdom of breath and bone. Before the electric-light blossom of America, and even rock and roll – but foreshadowed with the misty vision of Jesus pushing like tongued-fire out of the grave one summer in the early hours of morning.
I’ll gather sacred stones with you and they will be enough. More than bread, more than the cities that dazzle down below in the plains. We’ll arrange the sandstone, the granite, the lodestones and moonstones in patterns like bones all along the desert highway, until they spell out the names of the saints and the secret signs of the older language.
The archeology of the body is an endless pursuit; we dig deeper for crueler fire. You arch: a bow that will not withhold its arrow.
Well past the blue of dusk, knife moon, jagged night. Scrub brush against the ankles, terse and unapologetic. The bonetree stumps, strewn carelessly across the strips of cracking dry hillside. We move like animals, or the shadows of animals: listless, hungry, and lean as winter through the late summer heat.